


We'll Be Young Forever

by LittleLostPieces



Series: Hand in My Pocket/Head in the Clouds [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostPieces/pseuds/LittleLostPieces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with kidnapping Louis Tomlinson is that it takes a lot of planning, precision execution, and loads of help.  Being as Harry has little skill for achieving any of the three, it's anyone's guess as to whether it's actually going to work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Be Young Forever

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third in the Hand in My Pocket/Head in the Clouds series and it is, quite literally, nothing but fluff. As usual, I had feathertofly look it over, but it's completely un-Britpicked. (Is that how you spell that word? I don't know.)
> 
> Title from (and most of the fic inspired by, honestly) Teenage Dream by Katy Perry.

The problem with kidnapping Louis Tomlinson is that it takes a lot of planning, precision execution, and loads of help. Being as Harry has little skill for achieving any of the three, it's anyone's guess as to whether it's actually going to work. 

Finding people to help turns out to be the easiest problem to tackle and, once the lads are fully on board, he's surprised to find the rest falls into place rather seamlessly.

The doesn't mean that the ultimate plan is, in any way, simple.

Harry will catch a red-eye flight immediately following his show in Denver tonight. He'll arrive in Los Angeles around three in the morning, where Brad, an A&R rep from his record label, will pick him up and take him to the small beach house that he and his wife own in Malibu. Around nine tomorrow morning, Brad will drive down to San Diego, where Louis will no doubt still be asleep on his first day off in ages.

Louis will not love Niall for waking him early, but he'll hopefully get over it. Zayn will console him by offering to skate with him at some park he's heard of nearby. While Louis showers, Niall will pack a bag and Josh will run it down to the parking garage, where Paul will be fruitlessly attempting to intimidate Brad. They'll load Louis' bag and Josh will head back up to Niall's room, where they'll mess about on the balcony in the hopes of distracting as many paps and fans as possible. Simultaneously, Liam will exit through the front of the hotel, chatting with the fans there and causing another diversion.

At this point, Zayn will take full advantage of Louis' love for a bit of mischief by suggesting they try skating off of a few railings and curves he found in the parking garage. There, they will meet up with Paul and Brad; Paul will run over all of the rules for the tenth time – _no one can see you, you can't leave the house, you have to be back by three on Sunday at the very latest_ – and the strange conversation will confuse Louis enough for Zayn to easily wrangle him into the the car.

Meanwhile, Harry will prepare the house in Malibu, and an early lunch, for Louis' arrival. Brad's wife will pack for the romantic weekend getaway she's been promised and, by the time Brad delivers Louis around one, Harry will be ready for him.

A member of Louis' security team will be around at noon on Sunday to retrieve him and they'll drop Harry at LAX before they head off for Vegas. Harry will fly to St. Louis, where he will walk into a radio interview at eight o'clock Monday morning with a smile on his face and a lovely limp in his step.

Nearly a month of planning has gone into this weekend but, if it all goes according to plan, the forty-seven hours he'll spend alone with Louis will be worth it. It's been three months since they've stood in the same place at the same time, since they've looked each other in the eye without the filter of a screen and the static of a crap connection. If everything goes according to plan, this will be the greatest surprise Harry has ever managed.

If everything goes according to plan.

*

“You know I'm stealing one of those for the road, don't you?” 

Harry's hand stills, the small knife hovering above one of the huge strawberries he's painstakingly slicing. He looks at Brad's wife, Amanda, and thinks about telling her just how thoroughly that is not going to happen, but he thinks twice. Her foot is tapping incessantly against the floor, bags already packed at her feet, eyes darting to her phone every fifteen seconds. She's just as nervous as he is, for some reason.

“I'm stealing your house for a weekend. I guess it's only fair,” he concedes with a nod toward the platter. It's not much, just a spread of fresh fruits and vegetables they bought at the farmer's market this morning. 

Amanda squeals in delight and charges forward, leaving Harry's tray alone in favor of shoving an entire, uncut strawberry into her mouth. She moans as though it's the greatest thing she's ever tasted and clutches at the counter as her head falls back. 

“Good?” Harry asks, teasing her with a wink when she glares at him in response. “You can probably have another one, if you really want. They'll go bad by the time Lou's done yelling at me.”

She shakes her head, her hand drifting to her stomach as if to say _I couldn't_ , and then takes another with a sheepish grin. “Just shove one of these in his mouth,” she says around the next, considerably smaller bite. “He'll never be able to stay mad at you.”

Harry doesn't think before he says, “Rather shove somethin' else in his mouth, really.” Amanda snorts, and Harry adds, “I meant my penis,” and feels pretty proud of himself when she laughs in surprise. 

“Yeah, I got that,” Amanda tells him with a roll of her eyes. “Thanks for the clarification, though.” After a beat of silence, she sinks to one of the stools at the island and watches Harry slice into his next strawberry. 

Her cell phone buzzes and Amanda leaps off of the stool. “That's my cue,” she says, rounding the island to press a quick kiss to Harry's cheek. “Don't ruin my house.”

Harry nods, watching her run for the door with her bags in hand, and promptly drops the knife when he realizes that this means Louis is thirty seconds from walking into the house. Harry has no idea how to greet him. That wasn't part of the plan.

He supposes he could grab the platter and just meet him at the door with snacks. Or maybe he should throw his clothes into a pile and be waiting in the entry with his intent on full display. Or perhaps he'll just stand here like an idiot and wait for Louis to find him, mouth gaping and confusion etched all over his face.

Fuck, Harry is smoother than this. 

Grabbing a wine bottle from the rack on the counter, he lets himself out the back door and sinks into one of the plush deck chairs. He pulls his phone from his pocket and sends Louis a text that simply says, _I'd check outside if I were you._

He hears the front door open, hears Louis shout _Harry?_ with a delightful mixture of frustration and confusion, and then laughs when Louis shouts, “I will fucking kill you, Styles,” from only a few meters away.

And then he's there, charging through the door and coming to a speedy stop in front of Harry's chair. His entire body relaxes, breath wooshing from his chest, eyes twinkling with something so mischievous, so Louis, that Harry has to force himself to stay seated. 

“Hi,” Harry says, offering a smile and a small wave.

For a brief moment, he thinks Louis might actually kill him. His glare is certainly murderous enough. Instead, he steps forward and swings one leg over the side of Harry's chair, lowering himself onto Harry's lap and looping his arms around Harry's neck.

“This is your idea of romance? Scaring me half to death? Making me think that my band was banishing me to some remote desert somewhere?”

Harry can feel his smile growing as he nods. “You love it,” he teases. His hands rest on Louis' hips, gripping just hard enough to reassure himself that Louis is really here, really Harry's for the next two days. “You know you love that I came up with such an elaborate plan to get you alone.”

Louis' reaction is a proud, vibrant smile that he doesn't even try to hide. “You didn't have to go to all the trouble, you know? I probably would have come even quicker if I'd known it was you waiting for me.” Harry barely starts to smile before Louis is pressing two fingers against his lips and shaking his head. “I haven't seen you in nearly three months, Harry. Please don't say something so stupid and cliché that I no longer want to fuck you, alright?”

Rearing back just far enough to show his teeth, Harry nips playfully at Louis' fingers and then sucks them into his mouth. If pressed to admit it, he would say that he imagined Louis telling him off and then kissing him until his lips were numb before moving this party to the bedroom. He absolutely did not expect that his fingers would be the first part of Louis that Harry tasted this afternoon. 

He's not complaining, though. Not with the way Louis' eyes get all dark and narrow, or with the way he rolls his hips toward Harry's, grinding down against his thighs while he licks his own lips and watches his fingers disappearing into Harry's mouth.

“Christ,” Louis finally sighs, pulling his hand back and wiping his messy fingers on the thigh of his shorts. “Should we take this inside or just strip off right here?”

Harry's eyes widen, scandalized. “After three months apart, all you can think about is fucking? I thought we had something deeper, Lou. Something real and emotional and-,”

“Boring?” Louis interrupts. He wiggles under Harry's fingers and buries one hand in Harry's hair. “We're not ninety and we talk every bloomin' night.” Pressing forward until their chests are plastered together, he sucks on Harry's earlobe and then whispers, “I appreciate your mind, love, but I miss the fuck out of your cock.”

Harry wonders, if only for a moment, how angry Brad and Amanda are going to be when they come home to find that their precious home has been positively desecrated, debauched by two horny popstars who can't keep their hands off of each other. Then he reminds himself that he's a teenager who's made a career writing songs about his own libido and experiences, so they can't actually be surprised if he spends two solid days fucking his boyfriend on every available surface in the house, can they?

His fingers ease into the waistband of Louis' shorts as he steals another kiss. “Let's get you out of these pesky clothes then, right?” he says, choking a bit embarrassingly on the words. For a kid who knows his way around a naked body, the thought of Louis' makes him stupidly awkward sometimes. He blames Louis for that, frankly.

“Now that's what I'm talkin' about,” Louis says with a happy little giggle. He arches back, allows Harry to ease his shorts over his hips, and then stops with his tee shirt pulled up to his armpits. “Is it safe to do this out here?”

Nodding, Harry presses what he hopes is a reassuring kiss into Louis' throat. “It's private, but we can go in if it'll make you more comfortable.”

“You don't mind?” Louis asks, suddenly looking far more vulnerable, maybe even scared, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. 

It embarrasses him to worry about it, Harry knows, so he rolls his eyes and asks, “Mind? There's a giant dining table on the other side of this wall. All morning, I've been thinking about bending you over it and spreading you out on top of it, so no, Lou, I don't mind.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Louis groans, slumping forward to rest his face against Harry's neck. “You're going to have to carry me in there now.”

For all of his height and the fact that he does, in fact, work out a bit, Harry doesn't think he can actually carry Louis, open the door, and make it to the table without half-killing both of them. So he settles for smacking Louis' ass once, laughing when Louis yelps, and then nudging him up until they can both stand.

Louis' shorts are still half way down his hips, his shirt still rucked up his chest, and his face flushed now. It's probably the most beautiful thing Harry has ever seen. 

“You have three seconds to get in the house,” Harry manages to say. “Otherwise, I don't give a fuck who sees it, I'm going to destroy you right here.”

The way Louis waddles into the house should be funny, but Harry's sense of humor is heading straight to his cock, along with all of the blood he'll need to focus on standing up and thinking clearly. He follows at a painfully slow pace, taking just a moment to mentally pat himself on the back for this entire brilliant plan of his as he goes.

*

Maybe it's the sunshine or the sea air or the general laid back pace of things, but Harry is almost certain that he was meant to be born in California. From the first day he visited, the first time he came to record a couple of songs for his first record, he's felt it like intuition. After his second album, he made himself a deal: if the third did well, he would tour and promote it and then take some time off and buy a small beach home out here in America. 

He's nowhere near finished promoting the third album, but he won't lie and say he's not looking at the real estate a little more closely during this trip than he has in the past. It won't be elaborate – he's not planning on leaving London for good, after all – but he's found himself dreaming of this place more and more during the last few months.

“Or you could buy a house,” Harry muses, beer bottle never drifting too far from his lower lip. “Be bigger that way, up in the hills where nobody would see us. I could record naked on a roof top, overlooking the Hollywood sign. Hm,” he moans as he trails off, tilting his head further back on the blanket to catch more of the sun. “Buy me a mansion, Louis,” he orders in an airy tone, completely lacking any authority.

Louis' response is to laugh loudly. “You are so drunk.”

“So're you,” Harry points out because, well, Harry might be buzzing right now but Louis can barely hold his head up anymore. 

The original agenda was simple, fucking and eating and sleeping, but there's this whole beach stretched out behind the house. And while sex with Louis is amazing and earth-shattering and wonderful, Harry's missed just hanging out with him, so they agreed to take a break and have a drink on the deck. 

Somehow, that led to many drinks in the sand, but Harry is far from complaining. This is good, too.

He feels Louis' hand brush his before Louis rests his head on Harry's shoulder. The sky might be spinning a little but Harry feels grounded with this golden boy lying next to him, brushing his fingers along Harry's knuckles and mumbling something about drowning if he tries to take another drink in this position.

The rhythmic lapping of the ocean so close, the warmth of the sun soaking into Harry's skin, and the gentle breeze blowing over his bare legs is almost enough to lull him to sleep when he hears Louis say, “I feel we're more suited to a small country estate than a mansion in Hollywood, you and me.”

“Why's that?” Harry asks, hooking his little finger around Louis' so he can trail both of them through the sand.

Louis sighs, whimsical and full of a hope. “So I can always feel you there with me.”

It is, by an absolute mile, the soppiest thing Louis has ever said. If Harry was more sober and less inclined to be punched in the balls, he would laugh. Instead, he rolls his head on his towel and kisses the top of Louis' hair. “I don't know what that means, but it sounds nice,” he says because, well, it _does_ actually sound nice. 

“Hm,” Louis hums, his mouth pressing into Harry's shoulder as his body rolls into a more comfortable position. “I like watching you make dinner when I'm answering emails, hearing your guitar in the next room when you're bored. Don't wanna lose you in a giant mansion.” He huffs. “Skateboards are meant to be used outside.”

Harry honestly has no idea what that has to do with anything, other than signifying that Louis is all but asleep against his side now, but he doesn't care. It's a beautiful day in the beautiful sun with a beautiful boy drunk and pliant at his side. 

That's all Harry really needs to know right now.

*

It's not actually bragging when Harry says that he's had a lot of sex in his nineteen years on the planet. It's more factual than anything really. Bragging implies that he wants someone, everyone, to be impressed with his numbers and even Harry isn't all that impressed with them so it's hard to give a damn about anyone else's opinion on the subject. They're just random people and, while they were fun for the time being, they didn't actually mean much to him. 

He's always been more impressed with those who find one person they can't get enough of, one person who holds their interest long enough to learn their likes and dislikes and kinks and turn-offs. He's well aware that there aren't many teenage rock stars who are secretly yearning to meet someone they can settle down with, buy a house and share dreams for the future and all of that rubbish he'd rather die than admit to wanting in the first place. He honestly didn't think he would find that person for himself until much later.

_Everyone believes their first love is the most epic thing that's ever happened to the universe, Harry,_ his sister once told him, after patiently listening to him going on about Louis for nearly an hour. _You absolutely should feel like he's it for you because that's what being in love for the first time is all about._ Harry's not sure he's ever loved her as much as he did with that advice. 

His cousin's warning - _Just be careful, mate. The flames that burn the brightest have a tendency to burn out the fastest_ \- wasn't so appreciated, but nobody in his family has ever learned to keep an opinion to themselves. Harry included.

The point is that it's not Harry's fault that he found Louis when he was eighteen, that he met this guy who is as smart as he is funny, who understands Harry's business and his personal points of view, who teaches him something new every time they speak, who is endlessly fascinating and who is seductive and experimental and just really fucking good in bed. He wanted it, yes, but he wasn't looking for it or anything. The point is that he found Louis when he found him. Shying away from that simply because he's not yet twenty just seems daft.

“What are you making?” Louis asks, sauntering into the kitchen in nothing but a low-slung pair of shorts, all of those tattoos on full display to drive Harry mad. His hair is still hanging wet against his forehead and his skin smells like shower gel when he raises up on his toes to press a kiss to Harry's cheek in greeting.

Harry continues stirring the sauce bubbling on the stove and leans his back into Louis' chest when Louis slips his arms around Harry's waist and hooks his chin over Harry's shoulder. “Pasta. It's almost ready,” he says, turning for a more proper kiss, as though they didn't just share about ninety of them between Harry's shower and Louis' a few minutes ago.

“Good. I'm starving,” Louis whispers against his ear, pressing a kiss into the bend of Harry's neck. “I find you very attractive when you're cooking for me. Did you know that?”

Careful to kill the flame under the pot before he turns, Harry leans against the stove and rests his hands on Louis' waist. “I find you very attractive when you're complimenting me,” he says, throwing his head back to laugh when Louis pinches his side.

“Cheeky little asshole,” Louis grumbles, resting his head against Harry's chest before pinching him again.

“You love me,” Harry reminds him, lost for the moment in the softness of Louis' back under Harry's guitar-calloused fingers. 

Instead of answering, Louis pulls back and smiles up at Harry with a mischievous grin that would make a normal person feel more nervous and less turned on, but Harry's never claimed to be normal. The same can probably be said for the shot of pure arousal that zings through Harry's blood when Louis holds his gaze and bites into the tattoo on Harry's collarbone. 

“There's pasta right here,” Harry says, refusing to relinquish his hold on Louis' hips. “Don't have to resort to cannibalism, dear.”

Though he takes a step back, Louis' steady gaze never wavers. “That may be the first time I've ever heard you complain about me eating you,” he says as he runs his thumb over his bottom lip and then sucks it into his mouth.

Fucking hell. With a groan and a roll of his eyes, Harry breaks the eye contact first, nodding toward the plates on the other end of the island. “C'mon. Let's watch telly while we eat.”

It's not until they're seated side-by-side at the coffee table in the living room that Louis says, “I can't believe that, in all of this scheming you did, you didn't light candles and woo me with a more romantic dinner at an actual table.”

Harry snorts around his first mouthful. If Louis is looking for storybook romance, he has come to the wrong fucking place. “Sorry. I gave you all my romance on that table earlier today.”

“You're a vile creature,” Louis says, shaking his head as he lifts the first bite of his dinner to his mouth. He's smiling around it as he chews, so Harry's not so concerned about the insult.

*

As Saturday morning dawns fluorescent bright outside the floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows, Harry stretches and groans, his bones and muscles popping and shifting with a satisfying burn. His friends give him loads of shit for it these days, but Harry can't help smiling as though it's a great day to be alive. 

_This smile of yours is disgusting, Harold. Get it away from me,_ Nick has said to him more than once, even when they're on the phone and he can't see Harry's face. _If I can actually hear it in your voice, it's too fucking much._ It only makes Harry smile more, frankly, because annoying Nick is one of his favorite things and also because he likes knowing that other people can see how Louis impacts him. He likes being in love. 

It hasn't always been this way, of course. He remembers the first time he awoke in his flat to hear the shower running, to hear Louis singing one of Harry's songs over the din of the water. The smile hurt his face that day, felt uncomfortable and ill-fitting, because he was so used to adopting that damned apathetic pout of his. He still uses that pout on occasion - people still say stupid things and manage to be offensive without even trying - but that dopey, lovesick grin is becoming just as natural. 

When he hears the water cut off in the bathroom, Harry arches his back and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in Louis' pillow. They haven't slept much, will surely nap later this afternoon, but that's alright. Who needs sleep when they only have twenty-seven hours left together?

He doesn't bother rolling over when Louis opens the bathroom door because this pillow smells awesome and Louis-like and Harry's nose is rather enjoying it, thanks.

When he feels the bed dip under Louis' weight, feels his fingers trailing the long line of Harry's spine, the brush of his lips against the hair covering Harry's face, other parts of him start enjoying this morning as well. 

“Morning, love,” Louis whispers, lips damp and voice sleep-scratched against Harry's ear. “I was thinking about you in the shower.”

Harry moans and shifts his hips against the sheets, a broken whimper choking from his throat when Louis' hand ghosts the swell of Harry's bare ass. “Yeah?” he asks, wrenching one eye opened to see Louis' eyes, still puffy with sleep, crinkled in the corners when he catches his bottom lip between his teeth and nods. 

“Was thinking how incredible it would be if you would make me eggs for breakfast,” he says, laughing and leaping backward when Harry takes a half-hearted swing at him. He's still naked, save for the towel struggling to stay up on his hips, his skin still pink from the heat of the shower, and Harry wishes that he could reach his phone, could save the image forever.

“Your fantasies need work,” he grumbles, though he knows he'll do it anyway. He can't really say no to Louis, for one thing, and he's a bit worried that Louis might burn Brad's house to the ground if left alone in the kitchen for too long.

As he struggles to fight himself out of the mass of covers, Louis starts humming. When Harry manages to keep his eyes open long enough to notice, Louis is bending over his suitcase, towel beginning to slip lower on his curved hips, and it takes everything in Harry's power to keep from reaching out and dragging him right back to bed. 

He'll blame it on the exhaustion, the fact that it takes him nearly thirty whole seconds to realize he absolutely _can_ reach out and drag Louis' insane body right back to the bed. He's not blaming anyone or anything when Louis just laughs and follows easily, leaving his towel in a heap on the floor as he falls into Harry with a grunt.

“What about my eggs?” he asks, minty breath ghosting over Harry's cheek as he dips to suck a bruise behind Harry's ear.

Harry rolls them easily, knees digging into the mattress at Louis' sides as Louis languidly rolls his hips toward Harry's. “We'll get to that,” he promises.

For now, they've got more important things to think about, things far more interesting than breakfast.

*

The clock is ticking somewhere in the back of Harry's mind. Nineteen hours until Louis is swept away from him again, until they're both caught back up into the lives they've become so accustomed to, until they're apart for another five weeks. After that, it's ten days at home and then Louis' off again, charming the pants off of Australian audiences while Harry goes to Japan. He doesn't know the schedules from there, doesn't let himself think too far ahead these days. 

He takes a deep breath as he sets the last of the clean lunch plates into the drain pan and reminds himself that there are nineteen, closer to eighteen and a half really, more hours here. That's all that matters for now.

The discordant sounds of guitar strings plucked in the absolute wrong order draw his attention away from the kitchen, Louis' muttered curses bringing a smile to Harry's lips. He's trying his best, bless him, but Louis is probably never going to be the world's best guitar player. Harry doesn't mind that nearly as much as Louis seems to, though.

He heads into the living room and stops short. There are sheets and blankets draped from the couch to the coffee table and over the arm of a nearby chair. If Harry's honest, it looks like something his mum used to do with their duvets when he was a kid, washing them and then draping them over the furniture to dry. 

“Louis?” he asks, laughing when one of the blankets bulges in the middle as Louis tries to stand. “What the hell are you doing?”

His cheeks are flushed when Louis' head pops out. “I built a fort,” he explains, as though this should be completely obvious.

“Why?”

Louis just shrugs, his smile falling just a little. “Seemed like the right thing to do at the time. C'mon, join me.”

It's so incredibly stupid, folding up to fit into a stupid little tent next to Louis when this entire house is like a fort for them at the moment. Harry can only imagine what Nick would say, watching Harry crawling on his hands and knees into this tent that Louis has created, but once he gets inside he can't really be bothered to care.

There are pillows, so many pillows, and Louis reclines against them like some sort of king ready to be fed grapes or something. The light manages to filter through the white sheet he's draped over the far side of his little fort, creating this amazingly soft atmosphere. It's also a lot bigger than it initially seemed, big enough for Harry to sit and lean against the couch, stretch his legs out comfortably, and accept the guitar that Louis is offering.

“What's this then?” Harry asks, casually plucking a few strings in a lazy melody that he's making up as he goes. He plays for a second more before he realizes that Louis isn't answering. When Harry turns, he's actually _blushing_. “What?” he asks, the music dying short as Harry smiles a the pink tint in Louis' cheeks. 

“I want your help with something,” Louis finally admits. 

Knowing just how hard those words are for Louis to say, Harry nods immediately. “Of course, Lou. Anything, you know that.”

“Okay, well I've been working,” he stops and scrubs his hand over his face. “I wrote this thing and it's alright, but there's something missing.”

Harry's fingers freeze against the strings. “You want to write a song together?” Louis nods and looks away like this is the most humiliating thing he could possibly be asking. “There is literally nothing I would like more right now.” Off of Louis' raise eyebrow, Harry smiles. “Filthy,” he laughs with a shake of his head. “So let me hear it.”

From somewhere behind his back, Louis produces his phone, thumbing over the screen a few times until a soft piano melody starts. 

“Is that you?” he asks. Louis nods, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and looking away quickly, shyly. “Lou, I didn't even know you could play.”

Sure, he's a musician. Harry has argued, mostly with his more idiotic industry acquaintances, about the validity of One Direction's musicianship over the last year. He took some shit for writing on their last album – it wasn't a surprise or anything, but that didn't make it any easier to stomach – and he's always contended that they're better at what they do than anyone else. It's not what Harry does, but that doesn't make it any less valid. It's possible he's a bit defensive about it.

But this melody, this gut-wrenching mood that Louis is able to set with just a few chords, is not what he was expecting. Seems he should have already known that his own boyfriend was holding this card in his back pocket.

“I dabble,” is all Louis will concede, though he bows his head and bites on the edges of a smile when his own voice kicks into the track.

All in all, it's a good song. It's just that it's a bit, well, sad. Harry understands how laughable that is coming from him, but he's grown accustomed to Louis' music being uplifting and happy. There's an independence in the break up songs and a levity in the love songs that Harry's never been able to pull off in his own music. To hear Louis' voice sounding so haunting and defeated is a bit of a mindfuck, if he's honest.

“I'm not trying to be funny, but what still needs to be done with it?” he asks, when the final strains of the song fade out and the distant lap of the waves is the only sound between them. Though he has his own opinions, this is Louis' song. He needs to steer the ship.

Suddenly a blur of frustrated wiggling, Louis re-situates himself three times and finally flops back at Harry's side, their shoulders pressed together, before he says, “I don't know. It just sounds. It's off. I don't know what it is and you're better at this than I am.”

Harry huffs. “I don't know. If that's any indication of what you can do, I'd say maybe I'm more experienced than you, but definitely not better.”

“You're still going to get shagged, Harry. You don't have to flatter me.”

“Hey,” Harry says immediately, resting his hand heavy against the meat of Louis' thigh. “I take this pretty seriously, this music thing. I wouldn't even stretch the truth about it. So it's off a little, alright. We can fix it.”

Louis exhales audibly, his entire posture relaxing as he nods and starts the song over again. Harry listens carefully, picking out a harmony line in some places and focusing on the lyrics in others. By the third time through, he's ready to start making suggestions but he lets it play out again because he's in love with the sound of Louis' voice and this startling piano talent of his.

The sentiment of the lyrics is certainly something Harry can identify with, and he supposes that's because it's about him. Well, it's about them. Long weeks, even months, apart from the one person he wants to spend every waking – and sleeping, frankly – second with is hard, it's depressing and sad and maddening at times. Technology makes it easier to keep in touch, but also makes it harder not to be able to touch, so he absolutely feels where Louis is going.

“What kind of song is it?” he finally asks when it becomes apparent that Louis isn't going to answer. “I mean, what do you see it as? A love song? A break up song? What is it?”

“It's not a break up,” Louis insists without hesitation. He rolls his shoulders and slumps further onto the floor, further into Harry's side. He's barely speaking above a whisper in this sanctuary he's created for them.

“Alright. So it's about how much we hate being apart from each other,” he starts, brow furrowed as he strums through a bit of the melody.

“Hang on,” Louis says suddenly, sitting up and resting a hand over Harry's. “Did you just do that from memory? After three listens?”

With an arrogant wink, Harry shrugs his shoulders and says, “Just a little thing I can do.” He laughs outright when Louis scrunches his face and punches Harry's arm. 

Resting his chin on Harry's shoulder, Louis watches his hands moving and says, “It's about that night, about a week ago I suppose, when we were talking and everything just felt off. D'you remember?”

Harry does. They'd both played amazing shows, were high on the adrenaline that follows a killer set, and they both wanted to celebrate. The problem was that they wanted to celebrate with each other and, while they both knew it was impossible, it didn't make the reality any easier to swallow. Distance is something they've come to ignore most of the time, but it was making itself undeniably present that night. 

“I was so angry when I got off the phone and I started writing until it went away,” Louis explains, his breath puffing warm against Harry's cheek and neck as he speaks. “Then I was left with this gross kind of maudlin that I couldn't shake. I wasn't going to be the fool that cries alone in his hotel room, so I just kept writing.” He turns his face to press a kiss to the space behind Harry's ear. “I hate that I miss you as much as I do when you can't be there.”

Heart beating double-time, so fast it feels like it's driven into his throat in no time, Harry relaxes against Louis and nods. “We've not chosen the easiest of paths,” is all he offers. 

He's a songwriter, one who has occasionally won awards for his use of words, but none of them capture a moment like this. They're sitting along in a fort made of sheets, hiding from reality with music and emotions they don't normally share aloud. Simple honesty feels more appropriate than any kind of flowered prose. 

“It's always pissed me off when people tell me that boy bands have a limited shelf life. Strike while the iron's hot and all that,” Louis finally says after what seems like an eternity of him drawing random patterns on Harry's chest with the arm draped over his shoulder. “Sometimes it pisses me off that the expiration date doesn't bother me as much since I met you. I shouldn't look forward to that. I love my life. This is all I want to do. I shouldn't be lying on my giant tour bus, thinking about what our lives will be like when it's over. How morbid is that?”

Harry doesn't admit that he's also thought of that, of the day when Louis doesn't have to listen to a management team that tries to disguise his true identity, when they can buy a house and walk around outside of it as freely as they can within its walls, when they can travel together instead of in opposite directions. It's impossible not to think of it on occasion, but saying so now doesn't actually help anything.

Instead, he catches his bottom lip between his teeth and tries a key change in the last chorus of the song, taking it from minor to major, lifting it from haunting to a bit more resolute. He leaves the lyrics because, whether Louis will admit it or not, the lyrics are fucking good, but the tone of the song shifts from regret that life is controlling them into more of a defiant declaration of a choice they've made, one that will pay off for them in the end.

His fingers stutter a bit on the final chord, his voice breaking into an embarrassing giggle when Louis sucks Harry's earlobe into his mouth, and Harry sets the guitar to the side before tackling Louis back against the pillows. The side of the fort closest to Louis' head sags in, the flowered sheet nearly touching his face, but Harry couldn't care any less at the moment.

“Aren't we too young to worry about all of this yet?” he asks, mouth hovering just a few centimeters from Louis'.

Nodding, Louis uses one hand to play with the curls at the back of Harry's hair and the other to trace the contours of his cheek. “Definitely,” he answers distractedly, his eyes darting to the path his fingers have taken. “You're starting to get wrinkles,” he adds.

Harry can feel his smile growing as Louis giggles and wriggles under Harry's tickling fingers.

When they're both breathless and holding tight to one another's arms, wrapped up tightly in each other's limbs with half of the tent having fallen down around them, Harry catches Louis' eye and says, “I think we're doing alright at figuring things out.”

“Definitely,” Louis agrees, burying his face against the warm skin of Harry's shoulder. “Let's keep doing that, okay? Figuring it out.”

Harry nods because, honestly, that's all he's been planning to do for ages now anyway. “I wanna write something else, start from scratch, just you and me.”

Louis' smile is the best answer to any question Harry has ever asked.

*

“You can't wear those,” Louis announces, sitting against the headboard of the bed with a sheet barely covering his hips and lap. He's done nothing to help Harry pack both of their bags and he doesn't seem the least bit apologetic about that, either.

Harry looks at the jeans he's thrown onto the bed, the ones he fully intends to slip into as soon as he finishes here and gets a chance to shower. The countdown clock sits at two hours and quickly counting before the coach turns into a pumpkin and their whisked back into their separate lives once more. 

“Why not?” he asks, returning his attention to Louis' bag, wondering why in the hell Niall packed twelve pairs of boxers in the first place. It's a good job they haven't spent much time dressed this weekend because there's barely anything useful in this bag at all.

Louis catches one of the legs of the jeans with his toe and flips it, sending them slithering to the ground at the foot of the bed. “They're too tight. I can't breathe when you wear them.”

“ _You_ can't breathe when I wear them?” Harry asks, his hands stilling in the bag as he raises his eyes to Louis.

Like the demon that he is, Louis licks his lips and slips his hand beneath the sheet. “It's like gift wrapping your ass for me. I'll never let you out of the car in those. Pick something else.”

“I don't have anything else with me. Would you rather I travel in my swim trunks?”

“No,” Louis answers with a definitive shake of his head. “Then I'll just remember you walking out of the ocean all wet and gorgeous so no, that won't work at all.”

“Well those are your only options, I'm afraid,” Harry tells him with a shake of his head. “It's not my fault you're so distracted by how attractive I am.”

Louis laughs, his head rolling back, the long line of his throat nearly clearing everything else from Harry's head. When he stands from the bed, the sheet falling away to reveal every inch of Louis' tanned, naked skin, Harry gapes like an idiot until he hears the fabric in his hand tearing. 

He doesn't quite fathom what just happened until Louis crosses to him and plucks the torn boxers from him. “Who's distracted now?” he asks hotly against Harry's ear. “Come on,” he adds, his hand slipping down Harry's back at a tantalizing rate. “Packing can wait. Let's shower.”

*

A simple activity that, separately, would take them about ten minutes each ends up eating another hour off of the clock. Harry’s not complaining – a shower with Louis, wet and slippery and _loud_ is certainly never a bad thing – but their ride will be here in less than an hour now. The sadness is beginning to set in, along with the stressful anxiety of trying to hide it. Harry knows damn well that they both have to get back to their normal lives. He just doesn’t like it very much at the moment.

“Stop pouting,” Louis says with a soft, fond smile when he finds Harry staring out the kitchen window with thirty minutes to go. His fingers are gentle as they wiggle up under the hem of Harry’s tee shirt, resting against his stomach while the point of Louis’ chin presses into Harry’s spine. It’s a comforting presence, having him tight against Harry’s body, so he laces their fingers together and holds on for as long as he can.

“M’not pouting,” Harry insists, blinking toward the ocean to hold his emotions at bay. “Just thinking.”

“About how much you’re going to miss me, how you’ll fall apart without me, I know,” Louis teases, fingers digging into Harry’s sides until he squirms and laughs in spite of himself. “Hey, look at me,” he finally says.

Harry does as he’s told, resting his hip against the sink. His smile feels forced and thin, probably looks even less convincing, but he’s doing the best that he can at the moment. “Hey,” he whispers, coughing and clearing his throat because that’s a thing he does, not because his voice is cracking with emotion. Certainly not.

Louis rises on his toes, holds Harry’s chin with one hand, and presses an uncharacteristically sweet kiss to Harry’s mouth. When he pulls back, he gives this ethereal, dreamy smile that sends Harry’s heart racing.

“What was that for?” Harry asks, voice barely rising above a whisper in the space between them.

Shrugging, Louis drapes his arms around Harry’s neck and presses fully into his chest. “You know, things.”

“Things?”

“Yeah. Just things.”

In the way he interacts with his sisters and his younger fans and his bandmates, Harry knows that Louis is sensitive. From the conversations that they’ve had in the middle of the night, locked away from the world in one of their bedrooms or the other, he’s seen it. He also knows how much Louis hates to let his emotional side take over, how he fights to keep it in check constantly. 

Harry’s not going to push. Instead, he wraps his hands around Louis’ waist, slides them down over the swell of his ass, and tugs him closer. “I have five weeks to think up a new thing,” he says, a smile wrapping around the possibility in his words.

“Maybe I’ll come up with a thing of my own,” Louis teases, though they both know he won’t. Organization isn’t his strong suit, even with the very best of intentions.

Instead of saying so, Harry bends his knees until he and Louis are slotted perfectly together, head to toe. He holds on because he can, for now anyway, and letting go will come soon enough. In the back of his head, he thinks that he should be more upset than he is, sadder or more bereft or something. It’s kind of impossible to be anything but content and blissfully happy with his life when Louis is right here.

Harry pulls back far enough to give Louis the same kiss Louis just gave him a few minutes ago. 

“For things?” Louis asks when he pulls back.

Nodding, Harry pulls Louis closer to his chest and memorizes the smell of his shampoo and the warmth of his body against Harry's. It's tempting to think that real life will invade this time they've had together soon enough, but the truth is that _this_ is their real life. Stolen moments when they can manage them, private touches behind closed doors, secretive meetings in someone else's home are not normal elements of a relationship, but they have been woven into the fabric of Harry and Louis' since the beginning. 

When Louis tilts his head back, when Harry bends his to meet Louis' open mouth, to kiss him deep enough to pull an ecstatic moan from Louis' throat, Harry figures it could be worse, all things considered.


End file.
